


We Could Be Enough

by cathcacen



Series: We Could Be Enough [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Asoiaf - Fandom, a game of thrones - Fandom, game of thrones
Genre: F/M, jon x sansa - Freeform, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13734894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathcacen/pseuds/cathcacen
Summary: Jon bends the knee, but he knows Sansa will understand. She's the smartest person he knows, after all.





	1. Needs, Must

**Sansa’s elegant script has him in knots. He reads and rereads her letter a thousand times, and if he clutches the paper hard and leans in deep enough so his nose and lips brush the words – her words – he fancies he can almost smell her. Like steel and ash and smoke, like oiled leather and fresh bread. In the before, Sansa might have smelt like flowers and lemons and thyme; a lady of her station ought bathe in perfumed water.**

But it’s war, and Sansa smells like lye and harsh soap. There are no lemons now and hardly enough spice to make the northern grain and meat more palatable. It’s visceral and honest and by the seven he wants to be back there so badly it aches in every muscle, bone, and limb.

 _You are my cousin,_ the letter had said. _But no less a Stark to me. You are my cousin, Jon, and I love you. Come home to me. Come home to us in Winterfell, and let us be family once again._

He’d known – of course he’d known. Sam’s letter to him had arrived two weeks ago, and he’d still been struggling to make sense of it all when Sansa’s letter had arrived. She’d taken no chances with the information, and it was Brienne with her loyal Podrick who’d delivered the letter by hand. They’d been enroute to King’s Landing, after all – for the meeting with the Lannister queen.

_Trust Sansa to use this as an opportunity to send word without arousing suspicion._

Where her previous letter to inform him of Bran and Arya’s return had been brief and formal, this one, carried against the body of her loyal protector, spoke only of love and yearning. A desperate longing to have him home.

It makes him sick to the stomach, all the more because he’s already betrayed her.

 _If only Sam’s letter had come sooner_ , he thinks bitterly. But the deed has been done and he has too much lost time to make up for – too many apologies to make.

He doesn’t know how to word his response. The dragon queen makes it difficult; she’s not used to being refused, he knows, and gods he’d be lying if he’d said it hadn’t felt good _that one time_. But she’s not who he wants, and the stark realisation of what he’s done makes him reel.

He doesn’t love her. Not in the way she wants and needs, and his dreams are haunted by another. When he slumbers, the lady in the North with the firestorm hair calls to him.

 _Why_ , she asks. _Why did you leave me? Why won’t you love me? Why am I alone?_

He wakes in cold sweat. In the dim light of his singular candle, he reads through Sansa’s words once more. His own quill stops short of his blank parchment; he’s running out of time, and Brienne will soon be Northbound, and with her will go his chance of a private, secure correspondence.

So he forces himself to write.

 _I’m sorry,_ he writes. _For everything I’ve done, and for everything I will do that you might find displeasing, I am truly sorry. I don’t expect you to understand. If you can find it in your heart to believe me – believe that I do what I must for the survival of our people, and the survival of our family. I will sell my soul to the devil if that’s what it takes to defeat the walkers, and then I will come home to you so you might exorcise the demon from my being._

He seals the letter with wax and salt water.

The next day, he hands the letter to Brienne. The knight looks him over, her gaze occasionally shifting to the dragon queen where she walks alongside her advisors. “If Lady Sansa asks, I cannot lie for you.”

“Nor would I expect you to,” He replies wearily. “Tell her what you will. I’ll bear the consequences myself.”

The walkers draw closer each day. He refutes his aunt’s advances in more _pleasurable_ encounters, but he bends the knee. It’s painful and every fibre of his being cries against the travesty of surrending his – Sansa’s – hard-earned sovereignty. _I don’t expect you to understand_. The thought of Sansa’s face turns his insides to ice.

He’d kneel for _her_ in a heartbeat, and she would never even have to ask.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that he survives the end of it all. The dragons are dead. The two surviving Lannisters are left to pick up the ruins of their house and family. The seven kingdoms are just that – seven.

His aunt’s remains are buried within caves in Dragonstone, surounded by the scribblings of her ancestors and the bones of her children.

Despite everything, he wants her at peace in death – or whatever afterlife she believes in.

He knows there’s nothing beyond the present, and the present begs to be repaired.

Winterfell is in ruins, but Lady Stark has seen to it that repairs are well underway when he rides in with the remains of his company. She’s waiting for him in the courtyard, and as he dismounts, he wonders how it is possible for a woman to have grown so much more beautiful in the span of a year.

“You bent the knee.” She doesn’t move, not even when he comes right up to her. Her eyes are icy, but then they soften, and he sees it – sees the real Sansa inside.

The one he’s hurt. The one he’s betrayed.

The one he’d hurt and betray again, if it meant her guaranteed survival in the Walkers’ War.

“Aye,” He says. “I don’t expect you to understand. Why I did it, I don’t expect you to understand.”

She shakes her head, and when she speaks up, she surprises even him with how much she’s _letting on_. “We needed the dragonfire.” Her voice is tightly controlled. “I’m sorry you lost your aunt.” She pauses then, swallowing, before looking away. The words are softly-spoken – almost a whisper. “Did you love her?”

“Not in the way she wanted, or needed.” He’s too tired for games. “I know I don’t deserve you, Sansa, but your happiness would be enough. Your life is enough. And I will spend every day of my life showing you, if you will have me.”

She hesitates, but only for a moment. Standing side by side, it’s all too easy for her to reach for him. She takes his hands; hers are cold, but they feel like _home_.

“Stay close to me,” She says.


	2. A Friend of an Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is very good at making friends, even when she doesn't want to.

The snows of winter have all but washed out the green of the lands, but the red blooms stark in all the white. He hasn’t seen her in a good long while; besides a long embrace immediately following his return, she’s been kept busy in matters pertaining to grain stocks, housing, and textile supplies.

He’s tried – gods he’s tried to cede his titles to her, but she’s flat out refused them time and again before the lords who have pledged their allegiance to House Stark.

 _Stark_ , he tells her. _Not Targaryen_.

 _Shut up_ , she replies, every single time.

They split the duties down the middle. He takes to training their new recruits while she handles the councils and politics of their combined reign. There’s mistrust of him, yes, but the Northern lords are inclined to listen to their Lady, and if she trusts him, her cousin, they will also.

He glances up as Rhaegal soars overhead, the dragon’s cry echoing amidst snow-laden treetops, causing the earth to tremble beneath his boots. The dragon seeks the mother, who by now will have taken up council amongst the Northern lords. Respect demands that she be granted a seat at the high table, and his cousin is all too gracious – and too cunning – to be seen as disrespectful to another highborn lady.

Queen or no, the Targaryen princess deserves respect, and Sansa, ever-dignified, will give it.

The fire in Sansa’s chambers crackles gently, the embers blazing brighter in the darkness of winter. She’s sitting in her chair when he enters, sewing together several furs. He recognises them as those she so often uses to line their cloaks.

“Tailoring again, are we?” He takes a seat by her side, slumping back. It’s been a hard day’s training, and he’s gained at least half a dozen new bruises. There’s a cut beneath his arm that’s newly bound, the poultice stinging the graze, but he knows she’ll worry – so he hides it.

“The dragons might be able to withstand the cold, but it’s high time their mother dressed better for the weather.” She snaps off her length of thread, and he marvels at the way she threads, knots, and resumes her work. Her hands have roughened with time, but he likes them that way.

It reminds him that they’re no longer the same, the same way his scars tell a tale of a boy long killed.

“Are you trying to make an ally of her?”

Sansa quirks a slight sort of smile – a little resigned and a little exasperated. “I’m extending my hospitality as the Lady of Winterfell. We need her dragons if we’re going to survive what’s coming.”

He lets out a sigh. There’s a certain clipped quality to her voice, one he’s come to expect every time his aunt is brought up. “You don’t like her very much, do you?”

She shrugs a shoulder lightly, keeping her eyes upon her work. The fabric is thickly-woven, and is in a deep, rich shade of purple. “You tolerated Littlefinger’s presence because we needed the Vale. And anyway – she’s not inherently evil.” A pause as she quietens. “Just a little misguided.”

He manages a wry smile. “And now you are lying to me.”

Sansa glances up at that. She studies his eyes for a long moment, her lips chapped from the cold. She has a tendency to forget herself when there’s work to be done. “I would never lie to you.”

He reaches over to dip his thumb in her goblet of wine, then draws the crimson across her lips, wetting the soft, sensitive skin. It’s warm. Achingly so. He wants to kiss the flaked skin away, and then kiss her again to show her she’s loved. Wanted.

But there’s a war to be fought, and he can’t bear to hurt her again.

She licks her lips, her eyes upon his, and he feels his heart thump against his chest.

 _When this war is over_ , he’d told her. _When it’s over and we’re free, would you consider my hand?_

He knows the same thought lingers in her head, never intruding upon the necessities of the present, and yet never far from the conscious mind. They don’t speak of it, just as they don’t speak of their feelings – of _that_ boat. The end of the war will be just that. A clean slate. A hopefully long, and fruitful summer.

If they have to ally themselves with those they despise for a chance at that long summer, by the gods they will do it.


	3. War for the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa hears news of Jon's ill-fated wight hunt and rides for Eastwatch.

**She’s sick to death of skirting the halls, avoiding Arya on one end and Littlefinger on the other. When she has the time, she sits with Bran.**

That unnerves her more than the other two combined, but she needs to try where mother, father, and Robb had failed. _It’s just us now, and I can’t let our family fall apart again._

So she tries. She tries – gods she tries to include Arya in housekeeping matters, making sure the Lords and men are happy and fed. She tries to make sense of Bran’s ramblings. Some nights, the visions run so long and so hard he wakes panting, and it’s then she sees a hint of her brother in his eyes. It’s then that he’s most _human_. He allows her to fuss and bundle him up in furs, and after, she sends to the kitchen for hot soup and crusty bread.

They’re sitting together on one of those nights. The Lord’s Chambers are deliciously warm, and she thinks back to the time mother had explained about the water running through the walls – _from the hot springs, to keep you all snug and sweet in our home_. Sansa had giggled then, a girl of seven, as mother kissed her cheek and tickled her toes.

She can’t remember the last time they’d been that happy.

They don’t giggle any more.

There’s a knock on the door, and she opens it to receive a scroll from the Maester. She recognises the seal – the raven had come from Eastwatch. But it’s just Tormund there, and if Tormund is writing, there is surely trouble on the horizon.

Her heart sinks. _Will I have to command these men to march, to fight? War is Jon’s forte after all._ She scans the scroll quickly, then lets out a breath. The words are like ice in her gut. _No._

Arya raises a brow as she settles on the chair beside Bran. She hands the scroll off to Arya, who reads through it before passing it on to Bran. There’s been animosity – most of it misguided. But in the face of imminent danger, not for themselves, but for Jon, it dissipates.

Arya stares at her. And then it clicks, and the young woman leaps to her feet. “We have to go to Eastwatch.”

“I can’t leave Winterfell.” _It’s warm_ , she reminds herself. It’s _supposed_ to be warm – but there’s only snow in her heart, and it’s cold and unfeeling. She can’t think. “Someone has to stay, or the men will leave and Jon will have no army when he returns.”

Arya’s hand goes to the hilt of her sword. Needle is a stark reminder of what Jon had meant to her – what he still means to her. The mask comes back on. She quirks a smile. “You could get rid of us in one fell swoop. Is that what you want?”

She stares at her sister, and even Bran consents to look up. There’s no time for this – even now Jon stares death in the face. Or maybe he has already died. Maybe he is on his way home this very moment. Maybe she’ll see him sooner than she thinks, an undead Jon who won’t remember her. Who doesn’t love her.

The thought pierces her consciousness, and she has to turn away to hide the fact that her hands are shaking. “Fine. You stay, then. Stay and rule Winterfell in my stead, and I’ll go to Eastwatch.”

“Oh, gods.” Arya’s voice softens. “ _This_ is your face.”

That confuses her, and she turns around, wringing her hands. “What?”

“You’re a _lady_.” Arya looks as if she’s just been dealt a blow. Surprise, wonder, and amazement shroud her face. “There’s no earthly reason you should go. Your place is here – your politics are here. Yet you want to give up your newfound, hard-earned power to go to Eastwatch, where you’ll be about as much use as a pretty vase in a corner?”

She grits her teeth. “I don’t have time for this. I need to pack.”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Arya’s hand tightens about Needle’s hilt. “I was wrong. You’re not going to betray him. You’ve just become a Lannister. A Targaryen. You want to bed him.”

It’s hard to ignore the disgust in her sister’s voice. She clenches her fist, willing a defence into being. The words don’t come, but they don’t need to.

It’s Bran who speaks. “Father lied. I saw it.” He glances between his sisters, his voice dull and low. “He picked Jon up at the Tower of Joy, where Aunt Lyanna was being kept for her safety. He’s not our bastard brother – he’s our cousin.”

The gears shift in her head. She lets out a breath. Across the room, Arya’s eyes mirror her own shock. Lyanna and Robert. Lyanna and Rhaegar. If he were Robert’s son, then Lyanna would be Queen, and Jon would be the Prince in line for the Iron Throne.

“Jon’s a dragon.”

It’s Arya who breaks the silence. They share a look. After the war, she thinks, there will be time to talk. But now, Jon is waiting, and she doesn’t have the strength to fight her sister any more. It takes all the pride she has left – all the dignity, but she sinks onto her knees before her sister. She needs the young woman to understand.

“I am a wolf. I won’t ever betray that. If you believe it – if you can find it in your heart to believe that I am your sister who loves you, then please. Please hold Winterfell for us. For our family.”

Arya gnashes her teeth together. “Gods damn it, Sansa.”

* * *

They’d left him behind.

Jon is all alone beyond the wall, and it’s all she can do to remain calm in the face of the Dragon Queen and her men. But she does – she puts on a mask, ice before fire, and thanks the woman with all the graciousness she can muster for her efforts. They’re to sail back South with the captured wight.

She shares Cersei’s correspondence with the Dragonstone party and makes small talk about Little Lyanna Mormont when Ser Jorah asks of his niece. She sits with Robert’s bastard and he tells her of his shared experiences with Arya. “When you are better, you must come to Winterfell to see her,” She says.

When the day grows colder, Ser Davos makes her drink hot tea. Tormund asks about Brienne, and coaxes a smile from her when he explains that _all gingers are beautiful and kissed by fire._

The Targaryen Queen extends an offer for her to sail southwards with them, but she politely declines. “My place is with my people.”

She knows the Targaryen Queen is putting it off. Whether romantic or familial, there is a pull she can see, an attraction to _her_ most cherished King. She bites back the jealousy. There is no place in war to fight over a dead man, and the North will need the remaining dragons if they are to survive.

She’s just about ready to bury the dead in her heart when the shouting begins. Eyes wide and heart in her mouth, she watches as the gates open to the sight of Jon on a horse, shivering and half delirious. She runs to him, just in time to catch him as he rolls off the edge of the horse, bringing them both to the ground. Snow breaks her fall, and she breaks his. She takes his face in her hands, her voice stern as she calls his name. Somewhere behind her, she hears the Targaryen Queen repeat her words.

“Jon.” Her hands aren’t exactly the warmest, but they’re embers against his icy skin. “Jon, get up. I can’t rule the North without a King, so get up.”

He blinks blearily at her, clearly exhausted – then shock washes over his features, and his eyes fly wide, his hands going to her arms to grip her tight. “Sansa.” He can barely speak, but he says her name. “Sansa.”

She nods firmly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She lingers, just long enough to whisper against his skin. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

By the time Davos has dragged Jon off to bed, she’s damp from all the snow and her hair is a mess. She glances up to see the Targaryen Queen, all perfection with silver hair and rich, deep-grey robes. She’s royalty personified, and with two dragons at her beck and call, power leans heavily in her favour. The woman stares down at her, and there’s a flicker of something darker in her vivid lilac eyes – something like envy.

It’s petty, but she can’t help it. She smiles, warm and winning, in a way she’s so very often seen Margaery smile. “Excuse me, your grace. I have to see to my King. I bid you safe travels to King’s Landing.”

She strides off. There is a story she must tell, and it absolutely cannot wait.


End file.
